The newly married couple, Mr. Butter Masala and Mrs. Maggie Butter Masala reached their farmhouse at Kasauli Hills for summer vacation.

Standing on the balcony of their room, Mrs. Maggie asked Mr. Butter, "Would you like to join me in seeing the sunset point today?

"Sure, I also wanted to introduce you to two friends tonight!" Mr. Butter replied.

"That's a nice plan," Mrs. Maggie said.

"Would you like a cup of ginger tea?" asked Mr. Butter.

"You're the world's best tea maker; I would love to have it," said Mrs. Maggie. "But would you like to have tea cake along with it?"

Mr. Butter and Mrs. Maggie had a wonderful time at Kasauli Hills Station, which had stunning scenery and delicious food. When they got ready for their evening plans to watch the beautiful sunset and meet their friends, they walked down the hill station with their hands a little far away from each other, lost in thought about whether they wanted to hold hands.

As they enjoyed the sweet cold air while walking down and the peaceful scenery around, they were silent but present with each other.

"Sweetly, Mr. Butter said, 'You look beautiful in this orange dress.'"
"You look dapper in your blue suit, too!" replied Mrs. Maggie shyly. "

Both Mr. Butter and Mrs. Maggie reached the sunset point and smiled while watching the sun gracefully settling down, leaving beautiful tints of colors in the sky. They looked shy and wanted to talk but didn't speak that much.

When Mrs. Maggie asked Mr. Butter anything, he answered and looked at Mrs. Maggie's face, but shy Mrs. Maggie looked away. If Mr. Butter had asked anything of Mrs. Maggie, she replied and looked away with a smile but was present with him. So, somehow, they only talked a little.
Amidst the simple conversation between Mr. Butter and Mrs. Maggie, nature looked serene with excellent mountain scenery and greenery. The couples walked to a place to dine with their friends.

Mr. Hakka and Mrs. Hakka welcomed Mr. Butter and Mrs. Maggie. They greeted each other enthusiastically. Mr. Hakka and Mr. Butter were old friends and laughed at many stories.

As they planned to order some drinks, Mrs. Maggie generously offered them the peanut chaat she had prepared.

"What would you like to have? Any favorites in the drink?" asked Mr. Hakka.

"I am happy with the lemon water!" Mrs. Maggie replied contentedly.

"Are you also going to drink?" asked Mrs. Maggie curiously, looking at Mr. Butter.

"Will you start to faint if you drink too much?" asked the tensed Mrs. Maggie.

While Mr. Hakka made fun of Mr. Butter, Mr. Butter shyly assured Mrs. Maggie that she could take care of him if he found it difficult to stand.

"Yes, but we should protect each other. Please don't drink so much that you lose your senses!" said Mrs. Maggie (sounding concerned).

"I won't," assured Mr. Butter.
After a beautiful dinner get-together, the couples prepared to leave for their stay station.

This time, Mr. Butter extended his hand towards Mrs. Maggie to go back to their hill station. Mrs. Maggie felt happy, and they looked a little hesitant and shy, but they looked pleased. They thought they would talk to each other, but they didn't speak much.

That night, when they strolled in their garden poach area, nature looked warmly pleased by them, and stars shone on them. Mr. Butter turned to Mrs. Maggie to initiate a heartfelt conversation and began with an intriguing question. He lovingly asked if she would care for him throughout his life and be there for him through all the ups and downs. Mrs. Maggie's eyes twinkled when she started answering Mr. Butter. She lovingly replied to him, saying, 'I'm always just a hand away from you. You may want to feel my presence, then always hold your hand towards your chest and feel my presence in the pure silence of your heart. The only thing that I worry about is that nothing should ever happen to you. Would you always take care of yourself? Will you please do that for me?

Mrs. Maggie's words moved Mr. Butter so much that he hugged her in response.
The stars already shining on them started gazing at the moon, which was about to appear clear amidst the clouds. When the moon caught the star's gaze, he lovingly smiled at the couples and made a wish to the stars that were twinkling in the distance.

The serene nature and harmonious couples exuded a tranquil and blissful aura of togetherness.
In this way, the two unique couples, Ms. Maggie and Mr. Butter, remained calm and patient while listening to each other's daily worries and casual conversations, feeling satisfied and content in silence.
On a slightly sweet note, even though they didn't converse much, they were always present with each other throughout their journey!

©shivpoetesspriya

She's hot, He's not
They've got nothing in common
He's out drinking away his problems
She's at home sitting on the bed crying
His seeing other girls
While she's all alone at home
And these two souls
Should be walking separate paths
Both hurt and ache inside
Both mentally troubled in their mind
This situation just doesn't feel right

They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
They're emotionally drained every day
Trying to find a smile in these hard times
but in these dark days, it's hard to find a light
And this relationship breaking down
And karma always comes back around
They're gonna drown in the down down
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say

She wants everything to be her way
He could care less what she has to say
He wants every girl in his sight
He has no feelings for his wife
She's staring at the clock
Counting down the minutes until he comes home
She wants him to herself
She's hurt, she really loves him
Be he really doesn't give a ****
What she's feeling in her heart
Her tortured soul will be the masterpiece of his art

They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
They're emotionally drained every day
Trying to find a smile in these hard times
but in these dark days, it's hard to find a light
And this relationship breaking down
And karma always comes back around
They're gonna drown in the down down
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say

He needs money for the bills
She's got thoughts of leaving him
She's got those initial kind of feelings
She still loves him so it's hard to leave
When he is everything she feels she needs
And she knows that she deserves better
She's finding the strength and courage
To walk out of that door and so
She tells him, he will lose everything
He shrugs it off and takes another swig of his drink

They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
They're emotionally drained every day
Trying to find a smile in these hard times
but in these dark days, it's hard to find a light
And this relationship breaking down
And karma always comes back around
They're gonna drown in the down down
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say

She's got the car packed
Ready to make a change
Find happiness and a future somewhere new
As she goes to walk out the door
He strikes her across the face
She falls to the floor
He raises his voice in anger
You will never leave me you, little *****
Tears run from her eyes bruised and beaten
Mascara streaming down her cheeks
So much weakness in her body
Can't find the strength to pick herself back up
She tries with all her might
But she's stuck lying on the floor

They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
They're emotionally drained every day
Trying to find a smile in these hard times
but in these dark days, it's hard to find a light
And this relationship breaking down
And karma always comes back around
They're gonna drown in the down down
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say

He's barely thinking straight
Alcohol overtakes his decisions
His eyes, now blurred vision
his sitting next to her on the floor
Too drunk to even stand, his limits
His at his end, he rips off her dress
he gives her every inch
That alcohol breath
She breathes it in, crying and afraid
She can't even think straight
How did it get to this stage
*****, battered and bruised
The one she loved
Completely broke her trust
And now nothing will ever be the same
She'll be haunted by memories
for the rest of her days

They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say
They're emotionally drained every day
Trying to find a smile in these hard times
but in these dark days, it's hard to find a light
And this relationship breaking down
And karma always comes back around
They're gonna drown in the down down
They're Mr and Mrs's negativity
They've never got anything positive to say

©2017 Written By Benji James

They sat across the table from one another. One girl staring at her notebook. The other’s eyes fixed on her classmate. On the broadside of the table sat a dark haired woman, the only smiling face in the room. The shy girl’s crimson hair hung out from under her hooded sweatshirt as she sketched axes on the front of her notebook. The other girl’s golden locks hung in curls around her face. Her beauty was undeniable, as was the disdain in her eyes.
“So, can one of you two describe to me what happened today on that stairwell?” asked Mrs. White, the guidance counselor at Jacob Grimm High. Despite the gossip floating around the school about her, a smile was always plastered on her face. Most of the children found this unbearably creepy. “Nothing ma’am. We were just having a friendly conversation, when that pig came along and insisted, very forcefully, that we come here,” the blonde said, sarcastically, her eyes never letting go of their gaze on the other girl.
Mrs. White chuckled “That’s not how it happened, Goldie. C’mon, tell us your side of things.” Goldie rolled her eyes. “Well, Mrs. White, it’s like this: my bio class was just letting out, and I was heading down to calculus. She comes flying UP the DOWN stairs, like a maniac, slamming into my shoulder. I hit her, she hit me back. Now we’re here.”
“Is that true, Ms. Ridinghood?” asked Mrs. White, turning her head to the other girl.
“Not entirely,” she answered, finally joining the conversation. “Ms. Princess here was going up those stairs before I even got to them. To be honest, I was zoned out, just following the sheep. I’m not having the best day, so a friend gave me something to take the edge off this morning. I was following her up the down stairs, apparently and she turned around and started coming at me, shoving my shoulder as she walked past, then got offended – like I did something wrong – and hit me. So I punched her back. We wrestled for a minute before the rent-a-cop came and broke it up.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. White turned to Goldie, who was looking down the floor. “Goldie, why were you going back up the stairs?” ,
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“So you did go back up the stairs and come down a second time?”
“It was actually my third time,” Goldie admitted, embarrassed. “The first time I went too fast, the second time I went too slow. That time would have been just right. I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder . Go ahead, laugh it up.”
“No one’s laughing,” Mrs. White assured her. Although Red was a little, until Mrs. White turned to her. “Can you tell me why it is you needed to be ‘zoned out’ today?”
“None of your business, that’s why,” Red snapped.
“I have read your file, I know what day it is.”
“Then why did you have to bring it up?” Red was now agitated.
“For Goldie to hear. So you can better understand one another.”
“*******! What kind of understanding am I to get from this preppy ***** with a silver spoon up her ***? I’ve spit puddles deeper than her!” The two girls rose up, over the table. Mrs. White was able to get in between them.
“Now, both of you need to just calm down and talk this out like civil adults. Keep in mind, this is your only alternative to expulsion. “
Once everyone regained themselves, Red spoke again, this time directly to Goldie.
“Six years ago, today, my grandmother was murdered.” Goldie began to see Red with new eyes. “Remember The Wolf
“That guy who went around vandalizing houses?” ?”
“Yeah. He was hiding out in the woods. I was going to visit my grandma, who lived out that way. I saw him. He’d shaved so I hadn’t recognized him from the news. I told him I was going to my grandma’s place, dumb idea—I know. He suggested a different route, said it’d be shorter. By the time I got there, grams was gone. He was in her bed, dressed like her, waiting for me. His eyes…were so…big. If it wasn’t for Larry, a woodsman working nearby, I would be dead too.”
“I heard about that! That was you? Wow…I’m sorry. ” Goldie shook her head in amazement, then added, “Didn’t the woodsman chop off his head?”
“No. He shot him. Larry carries a gun when he’s working in that forest, because of all the dangerous things that happen there.”
“No doubt, that place is freaky. I got lost in it once, when I was six. I ended up at this cabin. I thought it was abandoned. Imagine my surprise when the family came home. I was sleeping in the kid’s bed, and I’d eaten their food too. I think I even broke something.”
“How’d that play out?”
“I did some time in juvy for property damage and theft.”
“Wow…that’s so messed up. At least you learned your lesson, right?”
“Oddly enough, no. When I turned eleven I started breaking into people’s houses. I mean, I didn’t take anything, just slept in their beds, or watched TV. I never got caught again.” Goldie sounded mildly disappointed.
“You know,” Red interjected “we are a couple of freaks, aren’t we?”
“Yeah. Hey…where did Mrs. White go?” Goldie said, finally realizing that Mrs. White had made an escape somewhere in the midst of their discussion.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh well…did you hear she has seven midgets living with her?”
“That’s just a rumor,” Red said.
On that note, the bell rang, and the two girls left the room giggling like old friends.

This is a prose tale about the great superhero, SNOGGO
(as told in the first person by SNOGGO to his amanuensis, Edna)

*'You can't have "Jew",' I said.
'Why not? It's a perfectly good word. Are you anti-semitic or something?'
'Jew has a capital J,' I said.
'Not necessarily. I've used it before.'
'Not with me you haven't. There's the dictionary. Look it up.'

Jumbo grudgingly picked up the Shorter Oxford and looked up "Jew". He sniffed loudly, slammed the dictionary shut and removed the tiles from the board. His replacement word was a sodding disaster.

'That's twenty-four points you've cost me with your nit-picking, you *******,' he said through gritted yellow teeth, his flabby body shaking with rage. 'The J was on a triple letter score.'

I sneered derisively and laughed long and loud, making Jumbo froth at his ugly fat nostrils with anger.

'Watch this and weep, Jumbo,' I said, playing out all seven of my tiles onto the board to create a stunning word: UNZIPPED. 'The Z's on a double letter score and it's all on a triple word score, so that's 90, plus 50 for playing all my tiles, 140 in total and the end of the game,' I declared in triumph. Jumbo was caught with 14 in his hand (remember: he still had the J) and thus I, the great SNOGGO, became Greenwich Scrabble Champion for the 25th year running. Not only that: but 25 consecutive defeats in the final for Jumbo.

Jumbo roared in frustration as he saw his hopes of taking the coveted 24ct gold "Queen Anne" cup away from me, SNOGGO, dashed to the ground yet again. And, by centuries old tradition, 25 consecutive victories meant the priceless cup was now mine to keep for ever. Jumbo's scream of uncontrollable, incandescent rage could have been heard as far away as the Vanbrugh Hill Municipal Waste Disposal Centre.

'******* you for all ******* eternity,' he bellowed unsportingly as he waddled out of the cheering hall. In so doing he flouted the gentlemen's convention of always staying to take part in the closing ceremony. He missed seeing me, the great SNOGGO, receive the shining gold cup from the gnarled hands of the Lady Mayoress, the Hon. Mrs Snotte-Wragge, who whispered in my ear 'Fancy a quick **** later, back at the mayoral parlour, SNOGGO dear?' For the fifth year in a row I told her to go and get stuffed as I didn't go for ugly old bats with arses on them like a double-decker bus.

Later that evening, as I sat in the splendid Georgian surroundings of Snoggo Manor, cradling the gold cup and admiring the row of 25 Championship certificates on the walls of my elegant dining room, finishing off my second bottle of Bollinger Grand Cru '89 and stuffing my 18th oyster down my happy throat, I heard a knock on the door. Who could that possibly be at nearly midnight?

It was Jumbo, my fat defeated foe. He looked downcast. 'SNOGGO,' he said, 'I've come to offer my apologies for my inappropriate behaviour earlier. You deserved to win, you are the finest scrabbler in all of Greenwich. I have come to offer you the hand of friendship and to invite you to my humble home for a midnight snack to celebrate your stirring victory.'

'Jumbo,' I replied, 'that's uncommon civil of you, old man. And your timing is excellent, as I've just finished my apéritif and was on the verge of kicking Mrs SNOGGO, my new 17-year old Thai mail order wife, out of her hammock to make my supper. So what's on the menu, squire?'

'Well,' said Jumbo, 'I was thinking of pâte de foie gras - naturally made by Mrs Jumbo using our own force-fed geese, with a bottle of Château d'Yquem '78 to start with. Then perhaps a kilo of blood-red filet mignon avec pommes frites, washed down with a rather good magnum of Brouilly '99. Then there's Mrs Jumbo's famed cheeseboard with a tumbler full of vintage port, followed by a dozen crêpes suzettes, a few petits cafés, a monster Armagnac and a giant Havana each.'

I considered the proposed menu carefully before replying. 'Sounds quite good to me, Jumbo,' I declared, glancing over his shoulder at the Bentley waiting outside. I could just see the peaked chauffeur's cap of the diminutive Mrs Jumbo peering myopically over the leather-covered steering wheel.

And so, having told Mrs Snoggo to tidy up a bit whilst I was out, I went off to dinner with Jumbo. In all our 25 years of Scrabble rivalry I had never once set foot into his house, so I was eager to check out what sort of lifestyle he enjoyed. Once inside Jumbo Villa, I cast my eyes over the luxurious furnishings with an expert eye, evaluating their immense worth and rarity with incredible perspicacity and knowledge.

'Not a bad pad you've got here, Jumbo,' I conceded. 'Not in the same class as Snoggo Manor, of course, but still ****** impressive.' He was visibly flattered by my compliment.

'A glass of sherry while we wait for Mrs Jumbo to serve us?' queried Jumbo jovially. I sniffed at the huge portion of delicious amber nectar appreciatively. 'Lustau Amoroso Bodega Marquès de Mierda '42?' I guessed instinctively. Jumbo nodded. '******* spot on, SNOGGO,' he admitted in stunned amazement.

I took an enormous gulp and felt the alcohol hit me like a slam in the abdomen from Cassius Clay's butcher and more vicious brother. The room spun and I closed my eyes in resigned delight.

When I came to I found myself hanging unclothed in chains on the wall of a dank cellar. My head was pounding and I felt distinctly below par. I looked over my shoulder and beheld Jumbo standing there with a sjambok in his hand. He was stark ******* naked, naked as the day he was born, and I have never seen anything so repulsive in all my life (with the sole exception of that incredible day when, as a child, I caught my paternal grandparents bonking on the Persian rug in the Great Hall at Snoggo Manor on Christmas Eve). Jumbo’s huge pendulous ******* sagged over his bloated fat belly, which itself hung so low his genitals were mercifully hidden from my view. He was a ******* monstrosity.

The tiny Mrs Jumbo stood to the rear of the cellar, also naked, pallid and with her public hair died a shocking pink. She was a skinny freak, a vision of *** Hell. I noticed the tattoo on her belly. It showed a depiction of the crucifixion which I felt was in dubious taste, especially with Jesus sporting an enormous *******.

What I, the wonderful SNOGGO, suffered in the next few hours was truly indescribable, so I will only summarise it. After a seemingly endless whipping from Jumbo (assisted by Mrs Jumbo, but her puny lash strokes were almost pleasurable), accompanied by their combined frenzied cries of demented hatred and loathing, I was forced to suffer the supreme humiliation. Jumbo mounted a set of fine Regency library steps, positioned his Hellish lumpen body behind me and unceremoniously inserted his tiny ***** into my outraged ****. Oh the shame! Oh the shame!

‘O Jesus Christ help me!’ I yelled in rain and pain. And suddenly a voice spoke unto me. 'O great SNOGGO,' it intoned, 'thou needst not suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune so needlessly. Only have faith in me, the great loving Jesus, and I shall give thee strength to deal with thy ******* awful tribulations.'

It was a miracle! SNOGGO could and would be saved! Quickly I mumbled a couple of Ave Marias remembered from my youth as a leading mutual masturbator in the chapel choir, and I silently promised a quick twenty thousand quid to the local faggotty priest ******* fund, and my chains fell to the floor with a blast of heavenly thunder. Halle-*******-luliah!

'Right, Jumbo you fat ****,' I snapped, 'you have ******* had it.'

And with one mighty blow of my right arm I smashed him against the wall. His huge hideous body crumpled as he slid to the floor, blood oozing from his fat gob. I gave him a ****** good kicking in the face and in the heart region and shortly he went to meet his maker, with a sickening grunt and expulsion of *****.

Then I turned to the horrified naked ugly skinny tattooed Mrs Jumbo and said: 'OK, *******, where's my ******* supper?'

She shrugged and headed upstairs to prepare the meal I had been promised by Jumbo earlier, as I was seriously hungry by this stage. Little did she know I would be obliged to put her out of her misery later. Or if she were lucky, I might offer her a position as unpaid toilet cleanser chez moi.

Yes, it was yet another stunning victory for the fabulous SNOGGO, thanks to timely divine intervention for which I am very much obliged.

And don't forget my luscious 17-year old Thai mail bride would be waiting to give me a really good ******* once I got back to Snoggo Manor. Either that or I would give her a good belting and send her back to her grotty poverty-stricken village with a demand for a full refund, chop chop.

“El Rabio”

Saturday 6-4
Hello again white pages. I’m writing this on Sunday for Saturday because I came seven hours away from dying yesterday, I was a little busy. I know I need to write this now or I’ll start to forget certain details so, here we go.

I woke up at 5:30 for my 6:00 breakfast. The air in Lima is always wet and sharp in the morning; it is incomparable to any type of Alabama morning mist. The morning mist in Lima is tainted from the 8 billion people who live here and curse it with their waking breath, it curses them back with sharp gray stings of water on their, our, faces as we leave the shelter of the tin roofs and adobe walls. As I walked into the kitchen, Madre Tula scolded me, again, “¡Estás tan flaco como un frijole mi amor! Ven. Ven aqui. ¡Comé!” Which, if you forget your Spanish years from now when you are reading this basically means she thinks I’m too skinny and need more meat on my bones. Madre accomplishes this by feeding me, every single morning, a piece of torta, a bowl of cualquier con fruta, and a ham and quail egg sandwich. It’s always delicious and yesterday was no exception. The NesCafe coffee yesterday burnt my tongue. I gulped it down in a heated hurry because of how tired I was. I gave Madre un besito and left to walk down the street to get the girl interns, Dylan and Lindsay, from their house so we could catch a combi (bus) to Salamanca to work the yard sale for our church with our missionary leaders, Mike and Lauren Ferry.

We made it to the yard sale safe and got straight to work. There was already a huge line of locals waiting to be the first ones in the gates to buy what the American missionaries were selling. After setting up tables and moving hundreds of boxes for about an hour Lauren came sprinting up to me and said, “You got bit by a dog?” I tried to laugh and make a joke about it being just my luck but she interrupted, “This is really serious, Cyril. This is a dang big deal.” I was instantly immersed into a stage of cold adrenaline as she continued, “Cyril, you need to go to the hospital. NOW. People die from this. We’ve had to send interns home for the rest of the summer for scratches from dogs in Salamanca.” She continued to tell me that I needed to catch a combi and find the nearest hospital immediately. The sides of my vision were clouding black and I sat down, I was suddenly very cold.

I think I was in shock and my brain was trying to refuse what it was being forced to process. Rabies. Rabies? Really? That **** dog. It was foaming and all the locals ran from it. I don’t know why I thought if I just stood still it would run past me. I remember the locals screaming Spanish, Quechua, or Aymaraat at me that I was helpless to translate with my two semester of Spanish at Auburn. That **** dog was brown and its lips were foaming. After I kicked it off me and climbed up on a wall of someone’s house I remember wiping the foam off my bloodied legs. Why the hell did I not think, “Oh, that’s probably a bad thing, right?” No. I was just too embarrassed by having made a ****** spectacle of myself in front of the locals to even think about the inherent dangers of rabies.

“Cyril?” I remember looking up from my racing thoughts. Somehow I had ended up sitting on the ground with my head in my hands. I was shaking as I looked up and saw Mike, Lauren’s husband, offering me a hand. He asked me to try and remember exactly what time I got to Salamanca yesterday and when I was attacked. I thought about it and remembered I was running late so I kept checking my watch. It was around 3pm. “****,” Mike said. When you hear a missionary cuss is when you know you’re totally ******. “Stand up, come on.” He helped me to my feet. “Cyril, listen. If you don’t get the first booster shot within 24 hours you die. There is nothing anyone can do. You have about seven hours left. You need to hurry, don’t be scared.” When he said that I remember laughing. Mike gave me a concerned eyebrow furrow as he led me, by the arm, over to one of the other missionaries working the yard sale, Mrs. Sarah. He explained the situation to her and I watched the Peruanos spilling in the gates and milling through the rows of tables and missionaries selling old books and trinkets. One lady that walked in had a monkey with yellow ears on her shoulders. I remember worrying it could be rabid too.

“Cyril?” Mrs. Sarah smiled at me, “You’re going to be okay honey. Lets go.” We left the yard sale. I remember anxiously watching the monkey sitting on the ladies shoulder and as we walked past it, it **** all over her and started to rub it in her hair. I swear it was smiling at me. Mrs. Sarah hailed a combi and we headed for Clinica Anglo-Americana. The taxi driver asked if we were okay and Mrs. Sarah told him about my situation. He fingered the rosary hanging from his rear view mirror and said over and over again, “Dios mio…pobre, pobrecito.” I understood that much Spanish. Even my taxi driver thought I was going to die.

We pulled up to the hospital and told the guard with the AK-47 why we were there and he waved us in past the spiked metal gates. Inside the hospital looked more like a bed and breakfast than the place where I would be given a second chance at life after rabies. The walls were whitewashed and the Untied States, Peruvian, and British flags draped down from three golden flagpoles by the front door. There were beautiful pink and yellow flowers everywhere that scared away the painful Peruvian morning fog that permeated my memory of the rest of that morning. We paid the taxi driver; he patted my hand and drove off.

Inside, I was encouraged to explain why I was there—in Spanish of course— to the friendly nurse waiting in the entrance. I was furious. Time was wasting; it was not the time for me to practice subjuntivo or pluscuamperfecto. I mangled out a few awkward sentences and the nurse’s jaw dropped. Mrs. Sarah erupted into belly bursting alto laughter. The rest of the waiting room was empty. I was so confused, terrified, and angry I didn’t know what else to do except sit. So, I sat on the closest wooden bench and felt a tear peer over one of my eyelids. Mrs. Sarah and the nurse were twittering in rapid Spanish and I kept thinking, “Six hours. I have six hours left to live by now.” Mrs. Sarah walked over, put her arms around me and explained that I had told the nurse the reason I was in the hospital was because I killed a dog in the streets yesterday. I smiled.

“Señor Blythe?” A doctor appeared and frantically motioned for us to come into his room. I walked in and it looked just like any other doctors office except the tray of scalpels, huge needles, tweezers, and vials of purple medicine beside the bed that he motioned for me to lay down on, “Acostarse.” Mrs. Sarah told me to relax. Humorous. The doctor and his two nurses wiped down the bite marks on each of my legs with three pungent and strangely colored gels in quick succession. I swear I hear a sizzling noise. The doctor picked up the scissors and I winced, but he only used them to open up a white packet from which he pulled out a huge thick roll of rough, wet gauze, which he used to wipe my legs clean. It numbed my legs. Then, of course, he grabbed the biggest needle on the table and used it to stab both legs; directly into the bite marks. If he hadn’t already scrubbed them so hard they were scab-less the needle would have cracked the crusted scabs back to flowing red. Rabies vaccines are not fun.

After a few more vials of life were shot into me the doctor wrapped up my legs in weird smelling gauze I was told not to shower and that I had to return to the US within 3 days to receive a “monohemoglobin shot” that they didn’t have in the hospitals in Lima at the time. I sat up on the bed and asked Mrs. Sarah, “So, am I going to live?” She smiled and nodded her head and the nurse answered, *“Si, mi amor, por supuesto.”

The trees overlapped
overhead creating a warm
cloister.
Harvey's car cooed past
the vibrant green
and sputter-stopped
at the plastic, fishhead
mailbox.
He drove up the grey gravel drive,
hopped out of his car and
with eager stride
headed toward
the door of the widow Prine.
"Hello, Harvey," Mrs. Prine
greeted from behind the screen
in her always-sugary-hushed tone.

"Hey, Mrs--I mean hello, Margaret."

"Haha, you remembered this time.
C'mon in, sweetie."

Harvey's steps matched gentle creaks
in wooden floor.
Pictures of Mrs. Prine's
three children lined the walls.

"That's Mattie, Cindy's baby. My first grandbaby,"
Mrs. Prine beamed.

"She's a cutie."

"Well thank you," Mrs. Prine picked up
some magazines lying on the couch,
"feel free to sit here. Can I get you something to drink?
Some wine, maybe? It's a red."

"Sure, sure. Sounds good."

Mrs. Prine stepped into the kitchen,
as the evening news played at a barely
audible volume.

"Oh Lord. I forgot to put the wine in the
fridge, Harvey."

"That's okay, Mrs. Prine. I can--"

"Margaret."

"Margaret, I can drink it warm."

"How about some ice cubes?"

"That works too."

Mrs. Prine's husband died
driving an 18-wheeler,
six-miles outside of Dallas
two or three years ago.
One of the few times
a sedan won a war
against a big engine.

Her cheek bones
jutted sharply from
her face,
deep crimson lipstick
and light eyeshadow
emphasized her
few deep wrinkles,
as if she wore them
with pride.

They sat sipping lukewarm
red wine, saying nearly nothing--
touching only during commercial
breaks.

When the news ended,
Mrs. Prine grabbed Harvey's hand,
led him to the bedroom,
filled with pictures of her and her husband.

The love they made--
textbook in its precision,
light in its passion--
finished chapter,
Harvey reached for his cigarettes.

"Sweetie, please don't smoke in here."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Margaret."

Harvey stared at her old life's relics,
wrapped his arm around her,
pulled her naked flesh against his,
a summer breeze crawled through
open window,
and Harvey said,

"So, tell me more about your husband."

Mrs. Prine smiled, brushed her hair
out of her eyes,
and with a retrospective sigh,
she began.

Part One

One day while in high school (am now out of college) I, Mattias,
went over to my best friend Joey's house. When I got there, as
usual, he was working; he's a nut job, or better known as a handy
man during the summer, but keeps up the big old house where Joey's
family, (Mom, Dad, five daughters and one son, Joey, the youngest) eat, sleep, and amortize the dwelling mercilessly where it's in
constant need of maintenance. e.g.: 5 girls, all girly girls and
their mother = 6 females, copious use of the room where one
rests (rest room), an enormous amount of toilet paper with all
that other female stuff that is jettisoned down the commode.
This impaction desperately attempts to navigate an old, cast iron,
privately owned (not city) sewer line and sewage system.

So one can see,
and smell, huge problems, almost daily. Btw: they have five
bathrooms. One can only connect the dots to each one of
these strategic stink-bomb sites and see a pungent, pontifical,  stanky  mess on their hands. Half the time a
bathroom is cordoned off with yellow tape, like, where's
the detective? A crime has been committed in this bathroom
by a bunch of
females.
Strangely enough, the olfaction in this old castle didn't seem to
bother these girls. As long as it was their crap, all mixed together,
they all are of the same bloodline, who cares? It was almost as
if they liked the smell, since it was theirs. It was creepy, but
these girls were so good looking it didn't matter to me. Joey
would laugh as he could see how I was enamored with them all.
Yeah, I didn't mind hanging at Joey's house. His sisters:
their beauty; was through
the roof. They were cool
inside too!

So Joey is pretty indispensable in their household. He has tons
of other jobs, paid ones, to perform, but maintaining the five
bathrooms for these girls and the two men of the household was
a full time non-profit summer job, except for expenses; how quaint?

Part Two

This one particular day I stop over,
                                                       like I do almost daily; cut
through the open garage to their entry.
                                                       Joey knew I was coming
so both glass and fire door were unlocked.
                                                       ­ I walk in, shut the latch
to the glass door and saunter straight
                                                        ­into the Kitchen and
see Joey fishing through his junk drawer
                                                        se­arching for a bolt. He
said he was working on the plumbing in
                                                        one of the bathrooms.

The next thing I know, one of the neighbors in the culdesac of
which they live, Mrs. Turigliato, knocks on the door and tries to
open it but the latch is locked. The old fire door was open, so I
could see her. I waved and walked over to open the glass door.
Says Mrs. T, “Oh hi Mattias.” I reply “Hello Mam.”

She locomotes by me with coffee
in one hand, cream and sugar dripping
on her robe and coffee droplets free-falling
onto the VA tile floor with little splatters.

A tiny planet is being hit
by mini nuclear bombs, yikes!

She approaches Joey; he's scrambling and rummaging
through their seriously versatile junk drawer for the
right size bolt to perform surgery in one of the rooms
with a bath (bathroom). She cackles,
“Hi Joey, whatcha looking for?”

Part Three

Stop here a sec!**

If Joey would have said “I'm looking for a bolt” this story
would be over. In fact, there would be no story except a big house
with a sick septic tank on private property not run by the city.
Instead, he says “I'm looking for a *****?” While we both
(Joey & I ) might have quietly chuckled, Mrs. T's response
was a bit more than I could handle at this delicate age. Says Mrs.
Turigliato, “Go see Trudy, she will give you a *****.” Trudy was
our age, Mrs. T's daughter, and she was hot, but this was too much,
my abs were killing me. It doesn't end there:

Our mouths are tongued tied shut; taut. Unbelievably, Mrs. T
presses on;

“I'm serious Joey. Go, right now, and get a ***** from Trudy.”

At this point we were holding it in, suffocating, choking, yearning
for oxygen. Eggs and bacon started to make their way up my throat. I couldn't take this. We both quietly gather some air.
Not a ******* word from Joey or I,
Mrs. T is on an oblivious roll:

“Don't you want to get a ***** from Trudy, Joey?”

I can only imagine poor Joey's mind, thinking “Yes Mrs. T, but not the type ***** you're thinking about.”

We stay quiet, not a word..... then the miracle. Joey says “I found the right bolt.”
Hearing the word bolt and not ***** evoked an inquisitive, clueless, look from Mrs. T, her painted and pointed brows scrunching up and taking on new formations, but out came no words. She turned around and waved good bye, never saying why she came over or what she needed. Joey's Mom wasn't home but Mrs. T didn't even ask or say what she wanted. Strange ****.

Conclusion

Being a few years later, Joey and I still laugh our **** off when one of us tells this story. Even at parties, dudes and girls go nuts. Maybe some day it will be one of those “you would have had to be there” stories to maintain its staying power, but so far both Joey and I have gotten dates from girls at parties after we tell this story. I guess they like something about it. That's cool with me. Mattias is my name, and my best friend is Joey.
________

Well.. if you must know!
our next door neighbour Mrs. Blue,
she and her husband are like rubber and glue,
So what does she do behind his **** back,
shhh..she dates her oompa loompa butler instead

Oh? tell me more Mrs. Snotnose!

Everyone knows I don't like to gossip!
I am not making this **** up right!
there's a rumour going on about that sneaky Mrs. White
(whisper)..She took some fat off her ****,
to hide that ugly mole of a nut!

(giggle) Bejesus!, really?

Of course Mrs. Dullardmost!
Wait till you hear about Mrs. Brown,
she wore a fake necklace to the charity event at Hotel Crown!
but not everyone is elegant and classy like me,
the sweet natured that I am, you know I let people be

Oh Mrs. Snotnose, you are the epitomy of noesis!
(I would have been on my way,
had it not been for all your delighting prey)
how is dear Mrs. Red doing after that,
you know, that.. incident in her flat?

Oh dear, who doesn't know about that flat incident!
but you know I dont like to pry!
you couldn't take it out of me even if you would try!
I couldn'tell you what I saw through her window,
but um, well, if you really must know!